


The Colour of Touch

by ConnorProject2K17



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Lesbians, Soulmate AU, car crash, colour touch au, injuries, ze/zir pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 22:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorProject2K17/pseuds/ConnorProject2K17
Summary: In a world where every touch leaves a coloured mark, Pastel is determined to keep herself clear. Until she meets Carmine, and her Black and White way of looking at things, starts to become a little Grey.





	1. Chapter 1

'Celestiabelle tipped her head back in anguish, and let the cool, soft drops of rain fall delicately onto her rose petal cheeks. A sigh escaped from her cherry blossom lips and wafted into the air, leaving a trail of mint and honey in its wake.

"Oh Bradthaniel," she moaned, her double-D chest heaving with despair, "why must we be cursed to be separated like this?"

"Oh my darlingest sweetheart," Bradthaniel took her heart shaped face in his rough hands, and she collapsed onto his broad abs, sweetly sobbing. He smelled of musk and firewood. It was masculine, and strangely comforting.'

Pastel frowned to herself. Why do people in books have such an obsession with noticing how people smell? You couldn't get away with that in the real world. And what would Bradthaniel have to have been doing to smell like 'musk and firewood' anyway?

She turned the page.

'He gently stroked her perfectly clear face with his thumbs, leaving tracings of brilliant magenta in his path. Celestiabelle couldn't believe how lucky she was to have found such a brave, but sweet man. He was the sort of angry that she could tame, and mould into a considerate member of society with her love alone. If only his dark past, and vampire family couldn't keep them separated, then they could be together to wed.'

Pastel instinctively reached up, and stroked her own face. Random patterns of acne, and mystery bumps trailed underneath her gloved fingers, and she frowned even harder.

What does she have to do to be like Celestiabelle? Clear skin, perfect hair, expensive clothes. The perfect life, except for the occasional werewolf attack, and random guys watching her sleep. Pastel would give anything to live like that.

She went back to her book.

'Celestiabelle knew she should stop him from touching her like this. Pull away, and shield herself from his permanent marks. But as she stared up into his blue-brown-green eyes, she just wanted to melt into his hold and never let go.

"I never want this moment to end," he whispered, his grip on her tightening. He held her face a little softer.

"But what will we do about the marks?" she asked, feeling his fingers trace small patterns into her skin. A colour this strong couldn't be covered, she wouldn't let it. But one look from her family, and there would be questions-'

"Pastel!"

Pastel jumped in shock, the book tumbling from her fingers and clattering onto the tiled floor.

"Are you in there?"

"Yeah!" she called back, and bent down to pick it up. Muttering swears under her breath, she stood up, and wavered slightly on her dead knees. Opening the door, she quickly stepped aside as Fuchsia pushed past, gripping her arms to herself in fear.

The door slammed in front of her, and she flinched.

There was a sound of running water. Pastel didn't move. She wasn't really sure what to do now. She couldn't go to her room, she'd wake up Plum. And then Plum would tell their Ma, and Pastel didn't want to think of what Ma would do to her if she knew she was awake.

She just stood there, listening to the sound of running water. She heard a quiet 'clink', and knew the toilet seat had been put up, and quickly edged away.

She could just wait for Fuchsia to come out, and make up her mind then? Maybe Plum would be too deep in sleep to hear her going back to bed. Maybe. She could turn on the telly and wait until morning to-

"I know you're still out there Pastel." Fuchsia called, quiet enough to not rattle Pastel's nerves any further. She looked around quickly; what if someone heard? What if Ma was already up, and saw her just waiting outside the bathroom? She could say she needed to go and Fuchsia was holding her up but-

"Pastel?"

"Yeah?" Pastel turned to the door, the swarm of exhausted anxieties being pushed to the back of her mind.

"Why were you in the bathroom so long?" Fuchsia's small chuckle could be heard through the thick door. Pastel looked down at the incriminating book clutched in her hand. Fuchsia couldn't know about it. She'd never live it down.

"I was, um," Pastel was normally so good at improvising, what was holding her back this time? She didn't make good decisions under pressure.

"I didn't feel well."

See?

Fuchsia was quiet for a while, and for a solitary, wonderful moment, Pastel thought she'd said the right thing for once.

After some random noises, and the sound of a flushing toilet that scared Pastel half to death, the door opened.

Pastel looked up, expecting to have her sister brush past her and flounce back upstairs. But instead, Fuchsia just stared down at her, a worried expression crossing her face. Pastel took a step backwards.

"What? What is it?" she asked, feeling the common, and unwelcome, surge of panic strike through her. Fuchsia placed a hand on her clothed shoulder, ignoring the way her sister stiffened, and sighed through her nose.

"Pastie..." she whispered, low enough for Pastel to have to lean forward to hear, "when you said you weren't feeling well..."

Pastel glowered as she trailed off, pushing the hand off of her a little-too-harshly.

"What?" she repeated urgently. They could wake up Ma any second now.

"Were you... did you mean physically or..." Fuchsia let the implication hang there for a moment, and Pastel's stomach twisted.

"What else could I mean?" she muttered, her voice sounding harsher than she meant to. She was sure her expression wasn't as innocent as she intended.

"I mean, were you..."

Fuchsia leaned forward, and grabbed at Pastel's arm. Pastel let out a yelp before she could stop herself, and struggled underneath her sister's grip. Her glove was pulled up, and she pulled away as hard as she could before It could happen... but it was too late.

Fuchsia's fingers brushed against the bare-olive skin, and a spark flew underneath her touch, just like Pastel remembered.

Fuchsia stared at the once-bare arm, and breathed a sigh of relief to find not a single cut against it.

"Thank God," she murmured, and let her sister go. Pastel went careening back, hitting her shoulder roughly against the wall. A small whimper escaped her lips.

She yanked the glove back up, too ashamed to look at the damage caused underneath it, and stared solemnly at the beige carpet beneath her.

Something echoed through the corridor, and she vaguely recognised it as someone coming downstairs. But she couldn't find it in herself to care at this point.

Oh god the mark. She'd have a mark now. Fuchsia gave her a mark. It swam through her head over and over again.

"What the hell are you two doing at this hour?!" Her Ma's voice cut through the air, and Fuchsia stiffened out of the corner of her eye.

"I-I'm sorry, Ma. We were just-just going to the toilet." her sister said quickly, her words coming out stiff and disjointed, like they always did when she lied.

"At the same time?" Ma accused, and Pastel could feel her glare. It dampened under her overwhelming sense of self-pity.

"Yeah. Actually I woke up, and then," Fuchsia's story of how they both happened to be awake at the same time died on her ears, and she found herself speaking up.

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Not waiting to hear the others replies, she trudged up the stairs, and into her room. At the sound of the door creaking open and shut, the bed opposite her own shifted, and Plum looked up at her with groggy eyes.

"Is it morning?" she asked, her words coming out sludged over a heavy tongue.

"No."

"So you were awake?" Plum blinked at her sister in surprise, which melted into a smug smile.

"You're going to be in _sooo_ much trouble," she whispered into the darkness, like she was sharing a secret.

"Don't bother," Pastel yanked her own duvet back. "Ma already knows."

"What did she do?" The thirteen year olds voice was dripping with a confidence no mid-teen should have.

"Nothing."

Plum's splutters of outrage and jealousy washed over her as Pastel crawled into bed, ready to hide under her covers until the sun died.

But even with the crushing sense of depression and forfeit laying down on her, Pastel knew she couldn't sleep. She was tired-when wasn't she?-but her brain was buzzing awake with miserable thoughts and messy anxieties.

"Pastel are you even listening to me?"

Pastel pulled a face at her sisters whiny voice, and hefted a pillow over her ears.

"Fine, be like that."

Some duvet-rustling, and then silence.

Pastel waited what she hoped was about five minutes, and pulled back the covers. Fumbling in the dark, she grabbed what felt like the lamp switch by her bed, and flicked it on.

"Hey! Turn that off!"

Blinking away the spots, and Pastel rolled onto her back, her vision slightly obscured by the mountain of cushions beside her, and pulled her arm out from under the covers.

"Pastel!"

"Oh shut up, Plum!" she snapped, and shot her sister a nasty look. Plum opened her mouth to say something equally as nasty, when she noticed her sisters gloved arm. Her expression softened in understanding, and after some deliberation, she lay back down and turned away from the light.

"Just turn it off soon." she muttered to the wall. Pastel gave her sister one last glare, before going back to her arm.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully rolled down the fabric, giving way to the dark skin underneath.

It had been a while since Pastel had seen her own skin, especially her arms. They were always covered up by her gloves. She took such special care to cover them up, shielding herself from everyone else around her, careful not to let anyone touch her; to keep them clean.

And now that was ruined. Because her sister 'cared' so much. She was caring about the wrong thing, in Pastel's opinion.

Because there, just on the side of her wrist, was the tiniest smudge of pink. In all honesty it was barely noticeable, just a vibrant, yet calming coloured dot, only to be seen if you were looking for it. But Pastel would know about it. And she hated it.

"Who was it?" Plum's voice interrupted her thoughts, dimming her brilliant anger but just a small amount. Pastel sighed, like she was forcing the fire out from under her.

"Fuchsia."

"What is it?"

"Pink."

Plum turned around, and stared at her with wide eyes.

"Isn't that good? Pink's the colour of family."

Pastel resisted rolling her eyes-a habit she was trying to break-and turned off the light.

"It's the colour of a lot of things."

***

Pastel had heard her share of mean comments throughout her life. 'Prude' and 'Virgin' being the top two, especially since high school. No one couldn't really understand her need for a bare body. She was what the media liked to call a 'Clear'. Someone with no marks.

She went through her life watching people with marks. Children happily poking dots onto each others faces, lighting up at the different colours. It was almost always a happy green, the colour of youth.

Young adults shouldering past each other in a rush, striking their arms in angry, yet pale reds in their hurry, without realising.

The elderly calmly trodding along, smattered in dots, stripes, swirls and random paintings, all with different shades and meanings.

Teenagers going through that emo phase, getting more and more frustrated at the hormonal yellows and blues that they left on the people around them.

Pastel didn't hate marks. That was a common misconception around people like her. That all Clears had a severe disgust for the skin colours, and were on a march to rid the world of them, leaving the world blank and boring.

That wasn't true.

Pastel loved them. She loved the meanings and the histories and the implications. It was just the weaker colours she didn't like.

When you touch someone, and you don't know them that well, or even at all, the colour comes out distant, like a watermark. And Pastel detested that.

She wanted her body to be filled with vibrant, passionate colours, each one with a different story. Not smothered in weak rainbows from strangers and people she would know once, and then never meet again.

She picked at the fourth finger of her glove, watching the thread unravel in front of her.

"Ma?" she called out from where she was sitting, eyes fixated on the greying fabric.

"Yes honey?"

"Please can I buy a new set of gloves?"

Ma's head appeared from the kitchen doorway, giving her daughter a tired look.

"Can't you hold out with those just a little longer?" she asked, wiping her hand on her apron. "Just until your dad comes back? Then we'll have enough money for gloves and things."

Pastel nodded, lifting her gaze as Fuchsia came stumbling into the front room. They locked eyes, and the older gave her an apologetic look. Pastel looked down again, purposely ignoring the other.

"Pastel-"

"No."

"But-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Pastel!"

Ma gave her daughter a Look that all mothers know, and Pastel shrunk into her seat.

"Sorry Ma."

Ma's expression didn't waver, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I don't want you to use that language in this house ever again, understand?"

Pastel's shoulders slumped, and she almost apologised again, when she was interrupted.

"Does that mean she can use that language outside of the house?" Plum asked, stretching idly as she trudged in. Ma just swatted her shoulder.

"Don't get smart. Just sit down, breakfast's almost ready."

Fuchsia and Plum both sat down at the table. Pastel stood up and moved to the other side, away from her older sister.

"Pa-"

One glare, and Fuchsia closed her mouth.

Ma moved past the table, emptying her pan of bacon and eggs onto the three plates. Plum immediately dived in, accidently pushing bits of food onto the table cloth in her hurry. Fuchsia just stabbed at her meal, her mind miles away. Her face had a gone a light shade of red, and Pastel knew she was thinking of Aquamarine.

"So," Ma sat down at the end of the table, and pulled out her own flask of coffee, "what are you doing today?"

"I'n goin' to da mawl!" Plum spat, spraying sauce in front of her. Despite not sitting anywhere near her, Pastel pushed her chair further back. She hadn't touched her food.

"I'm going to Aquamarine's." Fuchsia muttered, staring at her plate. Ma just nodded, oblivious to the flush on her daughters face.

"Don't you have work?"

"It's our day off."

Ma hummed nonchalantly.

"Pastel?"

Pastel looked away from her sister, blinking at her mother in a daze.

"Sorry?"

"What are you doing today?"

"Oh, um," she picked up her cup of coffee, and used it to muffle her mouth, "nothing."

Ma put her flask down, disappointment wafting off of her in waves.

"You can't do nothing. You can..." she looked around, like she was searching for inspiration. "You can go with your sister."

Plum and Fuchsia's head shot up in alarm.

"What? No! I can go to the mall on my own!"

"It's my day off!"

Ma glared at them, and they backed down.

"You can go with Fuchsia."

Plum noticeably relaxed. Fuchsia stiffened.

"But Pastel doesn't even like Aquamarine!" she spluttered, her blush darkening. Ma just waved her off.

"She can learn to." she turned back to Pastel, "you can't spend all day in your room. You need to get out more."

"I do!" Pastel complained, her voice coming out more whiner than she intended. "I go out six days a week, from six am to seven pm, and work! Can I spend my day off how I want to spend it?!"

"Pastel Chaucer!"

Ma's voice echoed off of the walls, making all three girls duck their heads. Plum quickly shoved the last of her breakfast in her mouth, and leapt up from the table.

"God do go!" she mumbled, and fled from the scene. Fuchsia and Pastel shot each other dark looks.

"What are you gonna do, Ma?" Pastel asked idly, turning back to her mother. Ma scratched the back of her head, trying to ignore the almost-fight that just took place.

"I'm going to a meeting. In fact," she checked her watch, "in a while my partner will be here, so be nice."

"Excuse me?" Pastel gawked. She hated her Ma's work partners. They were so shrewd, and whiny.

"About half an hour, so I need you out of the house." Ma explained, and got up to clear the table. Neither Fuchsia or Pastel had eaten.

Pastel disappeared into her room, trying not to slam the door behind her. She couldn't believe this.

Really, she knew it was her own fault. She was 24 and still living with her mother. Admittedly, Fuchsia was the exact same age-and only an hour older-and she lived here too. But Fuchsia had a social life, and well paying job. Pastel had 70 online followers, and was a cashier at a flower shop.

She looked around the room. Posters from musicals, random stuffed animals she wasn't allowed the throw away, and a few too many pillows than was really comfortable. Vases of all different shapes and sizes, brimming with flowers along the windowsill. A couple of cacti next to her bed, and hanging pots from the ceiling, with blossom falling over the side. And that was only her side of the room; Plum's side was somehow more adult. Pastel really wanted to grow up.

She just didn't really know how.

Anyway, Ma's partners were coming round, and she knew the drill. She opened the shared cupboard-Plum having way more fashionable clothes than her-and pulled out her fanciest outfit. Something that said 'Yes, i'm a young adult living at home, that's perfectly normal'.

Which was really a blazer, matching trousers and shirt. It gave the implication of a working woman.

Once she was dressed, in her overly stiff and uncomfortable suit, she headed downstairs again.

The partners were already here. A 'Mr' and 'Miss' whose names Pastel had forgotten long ago. They were standing in the doorway, somehow completely awake despite it being nine in the morning. Seeing Pastel on the stairway, they gave her a once over, and ignored her.

'Good,' Pastel nodded to herself, 'I didn't want to talk anyway.'

She went into the front room, and sat down on the sofa. The tv was playing, some cartoon. Something happened that ended with a goose being flattened with a mallet, and she snorted to herself, until she saw 'Miss' watching her from the other room, and shut up. Scrabbling for the remote, she changed it over to a documentary, and pretended to pay attention.

The rest of the meeting passed fairly quickly-Pastel actually becoming quite enthralled with the mating species of the dung beetle-and soon it was time for the partners to leave.

'Finally.' Pastel thought in her head, slumping her head on the arm of the sofa. She was exhausted, and it was only 11:00.

"Thank you, Ms Chaucer," Mr said, eyes devoid of any actual gratitude, "we look forward to your presentation on Monday."

"You're welcome," was Ma's generic reply. Reaching over, and pushing up their suit sleeves, they shook hands.

An inky black spread over their palms, and when they pulled away, Pastel could see it melding into purple on their fingerprints.

The colour of sophistication.

"Are they gone?!" Plum yelled from upstairs, already struggling out of her 'fancy business dress' in the bathroom. Ma sighed tiredly.

"Yes!"

"Great," Fuchsia wandered into the room, unbuttoning her own blazer, "I'm going to Aquamarine's."

She was almost out the door, bag in hand, when Ma called out to her,

"Don't forget Pastel!"

They groaned.

And that's how Pastel found herself sat in the back of her sisters Nissan, staring blankly out the window. Rows of moderately sized suburban houses slowly moulded into poorly structured blocks of flats. The colours washed out, and soon the overwhelming smell of bins smothered the inside of the car.

Fuchsia pulled up outside a smaller building, just as grey and disgusting as the others, and pulled the door open. For a moment, Pastel was too busy staring at the flat in uncovered aversion, until Fuchsia banged on the door with her fist, and she jolted in surprise.

The climb up the flats many, many, many stairs was a long, boring trek Pastel hoped she would never have to repeat. The words 'BROKEN' glared at her every time she passed the lift doors, and she flipped them off on the fourth floor.

"Stop it, Pastel." Fuchsia warned, seemingly unaffected by the monstrous haul. Pastel paused for a moment, holding her stomach as she wheezed in exhaustion.

"Aren't..." she huffed, "you... tired?"

"Nah," Fuchsia shrugged, stopping by a tiny window in the wall, the size of her head. She carefully fixed her hair, scrutinising her reflection with suspicious eyes.

"You look fine." Pastel scowled at her, leaning on the stair banister as she caught her breath.

"No I don't." Fuchsia muttered defiantly, running a hand through her shoulder length hair. It glimmered in the fluorescent ceiling lights, like a ravens wings. Pastel eyed her sisters seemingly too-perfect hair.

"Is that why you spent two hours in the bathroom?" she asked, crossing her arms over herself. Fuchsia froze.

"No I didn't."

"Yeah you did. Plum nearly wet herself. I had to kick down the lock, remember?"

Fuchsia made an unconvincing scoffing noise, and hurriedly re-applied her headband.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said quickly, and rushed up the stairs, her pink converses clicking loudly. Pastel laughed to herself.

"You're wearing your best shoes, too."

"No i'm not," even without looking at her face, Pastel knew her sister had gone red. "My best shoes are those sequin-y platforms."

"Then why aren't you wearing those?"

"Because they're impractical, and Aquamarine doesn't like them!" Fuchsia yelled, turning around to glare down at her sister. Pastel grinned, showing her teeth.

Fuchsia froze, her face falling as she realised her mistake.

"Pas-Pastie..." she muttered, forcing a smile on her face. She reached out and started fiddling with the strings of her sisters jumper, who flippantly batted her away.

"Pastie, you can't tell anyone..." Fuchsia stared at her sister with wide eyes, filled with guilt and desperation. It was only years of being the younger twin, that stopped Pastel from feeling sorry for her. She raised an eyebrow as she thought things over.

"I want £20." she said, holding her head up high.

"Deal."

"And your ipad."

"Fine."

"And you have to deliver my packages for me."

"Pastel!"

Pastel laughed to herself, and pushed past her sister, carefully avoiding touching her bare arms.

"Come on, Aquamarine's waiting."

***

When Pastel and Fuchsia were eleven, their mother had gotten pregnant.

The two sisters had waited in the delivery room for hours, and were finally allowed in at about four in the morning, on a Monday school night. The nurse opened the door for them, and they hurried over to their mother, laying, exhausted, in the hospital bed.

"Oh, girls," was all she could say, her head half-sunk between gigantic pillows. Fuchsia immediately threw her chubby arms around her, burying her tear-stained face in her mother's chest. Pastel stood back at a self-conscious distance.

"Can we," she looked around, as if someone was going to tell her off, "can we see it?"

Ma hummed tiredly, and beckoned her closer. Re-shuffling herself, she revealed a tiny mess of layers being held in the crook of her arms. Fuchsia gasped in wonder. Pastel leaned forward a little.

The covers were pulled back, to reveal a dark-skinned, black-eyed baby with a waft of curly hair. It had one hand sticking out of the bundle of blankets. She took Fuchsia's hand in hers, a cooling orange appearing under her palm, and carefully placed Fuchsia's fingertips against the baby's.

Before Pastel's eyes, a gorgeous shade of baby blue spread across from Fuchsia's fingers, to the baby's. Her mouth opened slightly as she gasped, her eyes widening. She watched as her sister wiped her own eyes with the back of her hand, rubbing away the tears.

"M-ma..." Fuchsia whimpered, gently pulling her hand back. The same shade of blue lay painted on the babies fingerprints.

Ma smiled at her, carefully rubbing a spot on the back of Fuchsia's hand, a small spiral of orange trailing after her.

"It's okay Fuchsia," she whispered, low enough for Pastel to hear. "It's okay. That's good. That's a good mark."

For the first time, Pastel wondered if there were bad marks.

"Pastel?"

Her eyes travelled from Fuchsia to Ma, who was watching her expectantly.

"Ma..."

Ma beckoned her closer, her gaze lowering in exhaustion.

"It's going to be okay, Pastel. You're okay."

Pastel swallowed, and held out her hand. Like with Fuchsia, Ma lifted the babies fingertips, and pressed them against its sister. The moment they touched, Pastel felt a shot of... of something spark through her nerves. She shivered.

"M-ah." she said quickly, her breath becoming fast, and shaky.

"Shh, shh..." Ma gently hushed her, going to place a hand on her exposed arm. Pastel flinched back, pulling her short sleeve down as far as it would go. Ma looked up at her with concerned eyes.

"Pastel?" she whispered, her eyebrows furrowing together. Pastel's gaze dropped to the ground, focusing on the tiled floor, and her own ragged breath.

"I don't..." she heard herself say, "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay." Ma cooed, and pulled the baby back. "Look at your hand."

Pastel raised her hand.

A silver-ish grey was sprayed across her fingertips. Like the colour of a safe.

"It's grey." Pastel spat, feeling something tighten in her chest.

"It's okay," Ma said again.

"No it's not!"

The room went quiet. Pastel flinched at the echo of the walls, before realising the sound had come from her. She blinked, the edges of her vision going fuzzy, and tried focusing on her mother. On the baby. On its tiny grey fingertips.

"What does it mean?" she whispered, holding her hand closer to her chest.

"Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt it? Why is it grey, what did I do?"

"Pastel!"

At the sound of its mother's voice, the baby started to wail, the sound piercing through the heavy silence like a knife. Both sisters took a step back, Fuchsia already edged against the wall.

"Did I do something?" Pastel asked, trying to make her voice heard over the baby. Ma was too busy shushing it, and rocking the bundle of clothes in her arms to listen to her.

Pastel slunk away into the waiting room, shoving her hand-her grey fingertips-into her pocket. She saw her father sitting, half asleep in one of the plastic chairs.

"Hey dad," she called, burying her hand further into her jeans. He snorted awake.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Can I buy a pair of gloves online?"

***

The inside of Aquamarine's apartment didn't really fit with the outside. There were colourful paintings that Pastel didn't really understand. Exotic decorations on every wall and posters of bands that she'd never heard of. All of the furniture was old and falling apart, and the front room, dining room and kitchen were all squashed into one. And everything smelled like cigarettes.

"So what do you want to do?" Aquamarine asked, falling onto the sofa. She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her legs in the air. Pastel took a step backwards, brushing up against the door.

It was true, Pastel didn't like Aquamarine. She was a very loud, open person. Much like a lot of their generation, she was obsessed with colour. Her hair was dyed differently every week-today it was orange-and made as big and bushy as she could get it. She only seemed to wear rainbow leggings, and crop tops with some sort of proud message about her sexuality.

When she sat up so Fuchsia could sit next to her, Pastel read the words 'My Body Belongs 2 No Man (women may rent it tho)'

She seemed to make it her mission to have as much of her skin touched as possible. Watery, dimming shades of fantasia ran over her body, disappearing under her clothes and layers of hair. Stripes and spots decorated her face, like war paint.

She passed a controller to Fuchsia, and leaned back into the sinking sofa, when she noticed Pastel awkwardly hovering in the corner. She sighed.

"Hey," she called over, running a hand through her larger-than-life afro, "do you want to play?"

Fuchsia muttered something to her in disbelief, and swatted her arm. Aquamarine whispered something back, but Pastel was only interested in the vibrant red-pink spreading over her skin.

The colour of infatuation.

"Pastel?"

She blinked, and looked up to see Aquamarine watching her with a kind smile. She was absentmindedly rubbing her arm where she had been touched. She hadn't seen the colour yet.

"Oh, um, no thank you."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Sure, thank you."

Aquamarine shrugged, and went back to fiddling with the remote. Fuchsia gave her sister a sad look, and called out to her.

"Hey Pastie?"

"Yeah?"

"Go raid the fridge."

Pastel opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by the twist of panic in her gut. She didn't like it here, she realised. She wasn't used to this flat. She wanted to go home.

"Thank you, but-"

There was a thump, and Pastel flinched. She squeezed her eyes shut, and bowed her head.

A few moments passed. She opened her eyes.

Neither of the two women were looking at her, and were instead glaring at the wall next to the sofa.

"Shut up, Carmine!" Aquamarine shreeched, making Pastel wince again. Fuchsia seemed equally pissed.

"Knock it off!" she shouted. Instead of a response, something banged on the wall again, sounding just as angry.

"Who-what's that?" Pastel asked, wrapping her arms around herself tighter. Aquamarine tipped her head on the back of the sofa and groaned in annoyance.

"My neighbour, Carmine. Ze moved in a month ago, and ze's pissing me off!" she yelled the last part at the wall, and didn't react when the expected thump answered her. Fuchsia took the opportunity to 'casually' slip an arm around her girlfriend's shoulders while she was distracted, and sent a supportive glare to the wall as well.

"It's okay babe," she used her taller height to gently kiss Aquamarine's forehead, leaving a calming coral lip mark. It was a bright contrast against her dark skin.

"Is there anything you can do?" Pastel asked, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with all the PDA. She was happy for her sister, but couldn't help but feel jealous.

Celestiabelle and Bradthaniel appeared in her mind, and she furrowed her nose in annoyance. Aquamarine let out a low breath.

"It's okay, ze don't do it that often. It's only when I seem to have friends round that ze get like this." she explained. Suddenly her expression changed, and she lowered her gaze guiltily.

"Actually, I wanted you to come round for a reason, Fuchsia." she admitted, gnawing her lip anxiously. Pastel quickly became aware that she hadn't moved from her spot by the door.

"Do you want me to leave, or..."

"No, no," Aquamarine waved her off, quirking up her lips in a comforting way. Pastel could see why Fuchsia liked her; she was very soothing to be around.

"It's just that..." she turned back to her girlfriend, "i'm moving out soon."

"What?" Fuchsia cried, giving the other a scandalized look.

"How far? Which country? What are the time zones, so I can call you?"

"Fuchsia, my heart," Aquamarine gently stroked the side of her girlfriends face, leaving heated rosewood sliding across Fuchsia's cheek. Pastel was taken out of the tragic scene by how dramatic they were being; she was reminded of an old fashioned radio drama.

"It won't be too long. Just in another city,"

"Another city?" Fuchsia looked close to tears, clasping her hands onto Aquamarine's shoulders. The same pigment of rosewood appeared underneath her hands.

They stared lovingly into each others eyes, like it would be the last time they would ever see each other again. Pastel suspected it would be.

It was another five minutes before anyone spoke, the only noises being the ticking of Fuchsia's watch, and Pastel shuffling her feet on the ocean blue carpet. They were interrupted (not a moment too soon, in Pastel's opinion) by another thump on the wall. This time, however, it was followed by a muffled,

"Sorry!"

"It's alright!" Pastel yelled back, because neither of the other girls looked in any mood to forgive. They were both distraught, Fuchsia pulling a napkin out of who-knows-where, and tiredly rubbing her eyes. Finally, after what felt like an hour, Aquamarine sniffed loudly and spoke up.

"I'll be moving to Botticelli, it's the next city over," she told them, still not looking away from 'her heart'. Fuchsia made a noise like she'd been stabbed.

"What will I do until then?!" she wailed. Aquamarine gave Pastel a shaky smile over Fuchsia's shoulder.

"I was actually thinking you too could buy this place."

"What?!"

"Sorry?" Both sisters asked at the same time. They gave the dark-skinned girl incredulous looks, who just shrugged apologetically.

"What? It's cheap-ish, it's near where you work and it'll finally get you out of your mother's house." she said, like it was no big deal. Pastel began to wonder if bins were the only things she could smell, or if there was a stash of hash hidden away somewhere. She couldn't be serious?

"You can't be serious!" Pastel gasped, staring at the two of them with wide eyes. Aquamarine didn't look like she understood why they were so shocked. Fuchsia had a strange expression on her face.

"What's the big deal?"

"The 'big deal' is that we can't afford our own place," Pastel told her, waving her arms around, trying to make herself take up more space in this tiny room.

"I'm a cashier girl, and Fuchsia's a nursery school teacher! We don't make that much money to begin with, we can't spend it on a house!"

"But it's not a house." Fuchsia interrupted, staring at the wall with furrowed eyebrows. Pastel realised what the expression was-thoughtfulness. It had been a while since she'd seen it on her sisters face.

"Excuse me?"

"It's not a house, it's a flat," The older explained. "We can afford that, together. And it's actually closer to our jobs than mum's home is, and, Pastel," she gave her sister a patronising look.

"We need to move out anyway. We're 24, we can't stay at mum's forever."

"Yeah but," Pastel felt her walls closing up in outrage, "but... mum needs us!"

"Mum needs help," Fuchsia told her. "That doesn't necessarily mean us. She has dad, and to some extent, Plum. She'll be fine."

"But..." no other arguments came to mind. She was too angry, "But..."

It was settled.

***

Eight weeks later, Pastel was standing outside the apartment door, arms weighed down by the last three boxes, watching tiredly as her sister and her sisters lover said their goodbyes.

With their tongues. And some very gropey hands.

"Okay!" she yelled finally, and the two pulled apart. "We should really get going."

Fuchsia and Aquamarine separated with hot pinks and red decorating their arms, necks, and waists in handprints and strokes. Pastel wondered what everyone else would think when they saw them.

With one final kiss that had Pastel physically hurting from not rolling her eyes, Aquamarine finally, _finally_ left.

"Finally," Pastel muttered, glaring at the afro of now-violet hair as it descended the stairs. The lift still wasn't fixed.

Fuchsia sniffed with the emotional pain of someone who'd lost a family member, and opened the door with shaking hands. It swung open, and they stepped inside. The carpet had been taken up, ready for them to choose their own, and all the paintings had been removed. Except for an especially ugly one of a fluorescent mermaid with turquoise hair. Aquamarine said Fuchsia should keep it to 'remind them of her'. Pastel suspected she just didn't know how to get rid of it. It was really, very ugly.

"So now what?" she asked, setting the boxes down. She waved her arms a bit to dull the pain, and looked around. Somehow the room actually looked better stripped then it did with all of Aquamarine's gross hippie rainbow garbage.

Fuchsia sniffed again.

"I'm going to go and lie down. I'm tired, don't wake me up," she muttered sourly, and left the room.

Pastel sighed, too exhausted to go after her, and just flopped onto the sofa. It was the only thing that wasn't nailed down that had been left behind. It was lumpy, and somehow had sharp and tough bits sticking into her back, but within moments she was asleep.

It wasn't until the next day when she realised Fuchsia probably used her to pick the best bedroom first.

***

The next day Pastel woke with a start. The back of her entire body was aching, from her neck to her legs, and it took a few tries before she could will herself off of the sofa.

"Morning."

She looked up from where she had rolled onto the floor, to see her sister hovering over her, fully dressed with a cup of coffee in hand.

"You." she spat, glaring at the older with crusty eyes. The effect didn't really work, as Fuchsia just laughed at her, and took a sip of her mug.

"Me. Anyway, when does Damn-delion open?" she asked, giving her sister a 'I know something you don't know' look. Pastel groaned as she sat up.

"Oh god. Six?"

"Well it's five thirty."

"Shit!"

Desperately ignoring her full-body agony, Pastel leapt up, and sprinted into the other room. When she was greeted with nothing but an empty bed frame and random boxes, she suddenly remembered this wasn't her mothers house.

"Which box has my work uniform in it?!" she yelled through the wall. She quickly fell to her knees, and began fiddling with the tape of the nearest box, only getting it open by ripping it apart with her teeth.

"I don't know! Didn't you have one marked 'work'?" her sister's voice answered, sounding far too relaxed for Pastel's taste.

Pastel paused. She turned the shredded box she was holding around, and was greeted with the word 'KITCHEN'.

"Shit." she said again, and stood. Woozing slightly on dead legs, she stepped over it, and leaned down to pick up the next box.

That one said 'BATHROOM'.

"Shit."

'JEWELRY'.

"Shit."

'GLOVES'.

"Oh good, I was looking for that one."

It was another twenty minutes wasted looking through all the boxes, until she found the 'WORK' one, and another five minutes getting it open. At last she managed to pull her uniform out, and struggle out of yesterday's clothes. When she was ready-without brushing her teeth or hair, but whatever-her uniform was crumpled, and her stomach was empty, but she was too frazzled to care.

"Okay bye!"

"Wait!" Fuchsia stopped her, blocking the front door with her arm. In her other hand she had a slice of toast, which Pastel thought was amazingly unfair.

"What?!"

"I'm going to drive you."

If she had had more time, Pastel probably would have looked for more reasons to be upset at her sister. But she didn't, and she was desperate.

"Thank you."

At long, long last they were on their way to work. Or at least, Pastel's work. The nursery Fuchsia worked at didn't open until 9:00, so she had loads of time. Despite not helping at all with Pastel's uniform hunt, she did let her have the slice of toast on the car, and at the moment that was all that mattered.

Only five minutes late, the car pulled up outside a small shop, flowers bursting out of every window. The words 'DAMNDELION' stared down at them from above the building.

"'Kay, bye Pas-"

"Bye!" Pastel jumped out of the car as fast as she could, and sprinted towards the shop. She slowed down once she got to the door, and carefully opened it. Letting it shut behind her, she hurried behind the counter, and acted like it was any other day.

"Miss Chaucer." a voice called. Pastel deflated.

"Yes, Mr Xeme?" she answered. There was a moment of silence. Then,

"I'm so sorry sir, I didn't mean to be late, but I woke up late because I just moved house, and I couldn't find my uniform and my sister-"

"Would you please check the records book?" Mr Xeme interrupted, like she hadn't said anything. Pastel just stood there for a while, then hurried into the back room. She liked that about Mr Xeme; he didn't have time for her anxiety, and made sure that she didn't either.

The back room was her favourite place in the store. It had flowers crawling up the wall and hanging from the ceiling, and one giant window that took up most of the opposite wall. There were boxes placed on shelves, half-hidden by lavenders and roses, that had been there since Pastel had started working, and had never once been opened.

Just as she opened the records book, and started skimming through the dates and names for that day, something crashed against the window, making her scream.

She twisted around, and stared. Opposite the window was a building, close enough that she could see inside. There was a overly muscular man inside, yelling at someone who looked like a worker. He picked up some sort of equipment that Pastel didn't recognise, and threw it. It bounced off of their window. Not Pastel's. She breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing was broken, she wasn't in any danger.

She continued to watch as the man finally left-voice muffled by the two panes of glass-leaving the worker alone.

"Mr Xeme?" she called into the front room, eyes still on the windows.

"Yes?"

She went through the door, into the front room again.

"I think something happened in the building opposite ours. There was this guy and he was throwing things and, can I go and see if they're alright?"

Mr Xeme squinted at her behind his comically sized glasses, and shrugged.

"Sure. But be back in half an hour."

"Thanks!"

She was out the door in an instant. It was odd, she realised as she made her way down the street-she had never been in that building before. It had been closed for as long as she could remember; no one told her it was being used.

The trek to the building was over almost immediately. The door-once peeling with sun burnt blue-had been painted over with black, and had stickers all over the glass. Things like skulls, and anatomically correct heart, and daggers decorated it. There was an electric sign that read 'TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS'. Pastel almost considered going back.

Hesitating only once, she knocked on the door, and pushed her way in.

The inside was just a intimidating as the outside.

There was a chair in the middle of the room, looking like it belonged in a dentists. Sharp objects lay on a silver tray next to it, which wasn't helping. Posters were strung up on every wall, of all vaguely the same things; skulls, hearts and daggers. One of the walls-opposite the window, was just a giant mirror. Everything smelled like paint.

"Hello?" Pastel called out, wiping her hands on her trousers. Fuchsia said they were 'mum-pants', and laughed at her. Pastel insisted they were cool. She was beginning to doubt it.

There was a clattering noise, and someone came out of a door in the back. They shut it behind them, and looked back at Pastel.

Pastel was really beginning to hate her wardrobe.

They were cool. Really cool. Half their head was shaved, leaving the other silky with blue ringlets. Their wrists were painted with different symbols and cartoons that Pastel didn't recognise. Their makeup was smudged, but in a way that seemed like it was intentional. They were cool.

"Hey." they called over, raising their hand in a greeting. Pastel raised her own, but only because she too dumbstruck to do anything else. Blood was rushing to her brain in fear; she didn't know what to do.

Luckily she didn't have to do anything. The person pulled out a cloth from somewhere, and laid it over the dentist chair, wiping it off.

"So what do you want?" they asked, but not in a rude way. Pastel took a step back.

"I just-that guy before? He was yelling and, um, it was-I just came to see if you were okay?" she stumbled over her words, feeling her back become cold with sweat.

She didn't like it here. It was too dark, and the lights were too bright, and everything smelled like toxins and chemicals.

And the person was looking at her like she was crazy, and they looked like a serial killer, and they would probably throw Pastel out.

"Nah," they waved her off, "don't worry about him. He was getting all uptight about the payment. He won't come back."

"How do you know?" Pastel didn't know why she was still talking. She wanted to end this conversation as soon she could, and get back to her nice and cozy flower shop. The person began fiddling with the edge of the sheet.

"Because he said he was here on holiday, and wanted a tattoo to remember it." they told her. Pastel looked out the door, as if seeing the dirty pavements, and cheap apartments for the first time.

"He went on holiday _here?"_

The person laughed.

"I know. Apparently he has family here or something. I don't know. Anyway," they finally stopped talking, to Pastel's relief. "You're not here for a tattoo?"

"What?" Pastel turned back.

"I just thought," the person waved their hand around to indicate where they were, "since you were in a tattoo parlour..."

They trailed off, something Pastel was really beginning to hate, and waited for her to talk. She edged closer towards the door.

"Oh no. Just came to check on you."

"Yeah, you didn't seem like the tattoo type."

They looked down at Pastel's outfit, who flushed. Her work apron was pink, and had the shop logo on it; a dandelion. Underneath, in pretty caligraphy, it read, "Blow me, and spread my seed".

The mum-pants, and tie-dye rainbow jumper weren't really helping.

"Nope, ha ha," she fake laughed. "I've got to get back anyway, so..."

Without hearing their response, she turned tail and rushed out the door.

Her head felt hot as she hurried back into the flower shop. Her pulse was rushing, making her feel dizzy.

"How did it go?" she heard Mr Xeme ask, and nodded somewhat.

"Good." was all she said, before disappearing into the back room.

That had been the longest she'd spoken to a stranger in a long time. She hated talking to strangers. Hated it. Her anxiety always made her dizzy, and sick.

Pastel had tried to talk to her mum about it, but all Ma had done was laugh and say she was 'in love'. She wasn't. If she was, she'd been falling in love everytime she left the house. Which she didn't.

She turned and looked out the window again. The tattoo person was still staring at the door, with a confused expression on their face. She almost felt bad.

Then someone walked in, and the person went back to their job.

***

Pastel had grown up watching Saturday morning cartoons with her sister(s). Her favourite, and the one she'd fight over the remote for, was 'Happy Harmonies'. They were silly fifteen minute shorts, with a character called Princess Safflower, and a collection of other characters. Safflower was usually in some unusual setting, like space or Wonderland, and through a collection of sequences she'd have to get out of it. Like any other cartoon.

But what made it special, at least in Pastel's eyes, was the opening. There'd be the usual; anvils falling, someone getting hit with a mallet, a normal sequence to let the audience know what they were getting into.

But there was just a three second scene, where Safflower would be with Duchess Linseed (a supporting character, and her soulmate) and it would show their hands brushing. And between them, there'd be a bright spark, and a smudge of royal purple would appear on their hands.

That smudge of purple was painted on Princess Safflower hand in every episode, and for Pastel growing up, it was the most gorgeous colour in the world. The purple itself was not the most interesting; Happy Harmonies had the budget of a ham sandwich, and purple was an expensive colour for a cartoon. So it was really more of an inky blue, but everyone called it purple.

No, it was the meaning behind it. The fact that, two people can meet, and have a colour know they were together. That they were meant for each other. That they were soulmates. The idea seemed magical to Pastel at that age.

Of course later she'd grow up, as everyone does, and be subjected to all the controversy on the news; 'Magenta Matchmaker' they called it. The idea that a colour couldn't control your life and you were free to make your own choices. And, like everyone, Pastel had gone through that rebellious phase, where she removed the colour purple from her life 'in protest'; from her wardrobe, her shoes, her accessories. But then she read in a magazine that violet goes well with dark skin, and she'd dropped the rebellion completely.

Pastel had often wondered why 'Magenta Matchmaker' even existed. Why people were so quick to judge the life of a stranger they'd never meet. Let people be happy together; The Soulmate Mark was never wrong.

But she watched as the Emos, and Goths, and Punks in her high school came in to class, beaming with uncharacteristic delight at the pretty red-purple spread over their body, and she thought, maybe 'Magenta Matchmaker' just doesn't like people different from them being happy, and that they can't control it.

As she thought back to the tattoo artist, and the pretty red-purple crawling over their skin, she felt sick she had ever fallen prey to the group's sick trap.

***

The rest of the day passed as normal, people came in, asked for flowers, then left. At 6:30pm, the bell rang, and Pastel appeared from the back room. She quickly hurried behind the counter and put on her best smile.

"Hello, what can I get for you?" she asked, for the millionth time. The words fell out of her mouth on instinct, and she tried not to make them sound too forced.

"Yes, can I please see the, um," the customer looked around, seeming a bit lost. Pastel cleared her throat.

"We have a book, if you want, that, er, that shows all the flowers we have." she explained, and the customers face lit up.

"Oh my god, really? Thank you, yes please."

Pastel reached under the desk, and pulled out the book. The customer flicked through it slowly, carefully eyeing each flower, and reading the description underneath.

While they were busy, Pastel watched them.

They were Asian, with pale skin and curly hair. Not curly like Pastel's; which was constantly frizzy and tickled her forehead. But the kind of curly that was obviously styled, with hairdryers, and towels and, not surprisingly, curlers.

It had been dyed a lovely shade of pink, like a sunset, or coral. It stood out against their black roots.

Pastel blinked back to reality. Since when did she judge other people's roots? She wasn't judging, she chastised herself, she was just noticing it. Their hair looked lovely. But since when did she notice people's hair to begin with?

"Um, yeah," the customer spoke up suddenly, head still bent over the book. Their finger delicately brushed against the page, outlining the flower photograph. Pastel noticed a gorgeous pigment of blue placed over their neck, sort of like a hand had been slowly draped across it, just carefully feeling their skin. It was a nice colour too, pale but also kind of lazy. Could a colour be lazy? If Pastel tilted her head, she could see the colour fall into the dip in their collarbone, and travel down their back...

"Hello?"

She snapped awake, and looked forward. The person was watching her in confusion, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. She swallowed thickly.

"Err, sorry about that-" she coughed, quickly looking away. A strong heat fell over her face and chest, and she pulled up her jumpers hemline.

"-I completely blanked out. It won't happen again." she grinned stupidly at the wall, refusing to meet their eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see them turn back to the book, shaking their head like it hadn't happened. She appreciated that.

"Well anyway," they continued, "I asked if you could help me pick some flowers? I can't find what i'm looking for in here."

They tapped the page of the book with their finger, their long fingernails making a sharp knocking sound. Pastel rubbed the back of her neck-the image of that lazy blue hazing back into her mind-and turned to stare at the countertop.

"Yeah, sure. Absolutely. I'm sort of a flower expert anyway. I mean, not to brag or anything," she made a weird hand gesture as she finished her sentence, and then immediately regretted it. She could almost smell the judgement radiating off of this person.

They laughed however, and Pastel felt her shoulders slump. Sure, just because they didn't act irritated by her doesn't mean they weren't.

"What's the name of the flower you're looking for?" she asked, hands gripping the edge of the countertop. 'To stop you from making anything weird with your hands', she told herself.

"Well actually I was looking for flowers with a sort of meaning. To send a message you know? But to also look nice? If that makes sense?" they rambled, and Pastel watched as they tucked their hands into the pockets.

They were wearing sort of dungarees, like a farmhand. But with studs and sequins bedazzled into it. It looked nice, Pastel decided. She would never be brave enough to go in something like that, it was too sparkly.

'Ask Me About My Pronouns' was stitched onto the denim, in curly calligraphy. She read it outloud.

The person blushed, and crossed their arms over the message, which was rather upsetting.

"Well no one ever does," they explained, "so I thought i'd give them a hint."

Pastel laughed without meaning to.

"Well i'm sorry they do that." she said. A silence fell over them, and Pastel looked away again. Away from the persons bedazzled chest.

"What was the message you wanted to send?" she asked, without warning. Except it came out as 'WHATwasthe _message_ youwantedtoSEND?'

The person coughed into their fist, and put their arms by their side.

"Well, um. Do you have any that mean 'Welcome to the building'? I mean I get if you don't, because that's stupid and you wouldn't have those anyway but, like, just in case? Do you?"

Their words came out rushed and rambled, and it took a moment to unpick all of the pieces. But finally, when she realised what had been said, Pastel nodded in understanding

"Well we do have a collection of flowers meant for a new home." she explained, "We have our Letterbox Lilies, and Tulips. But there's also our Campanula gift, which comes is a little larger than the others but, um..." she trailed off when she noticed they were looking away. Like they wanted to say something but couldn't.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, leaning over the counter. They had shuffled away a bit, and were clutching their arm.

"It's just..." they took a deep breath. "I want these flowers to have meaning, you know? To send a message? To say, er," they went red.

"Yes?" Pastel leaned a bit further forward, patiently listening.

"To say 'I think you look pretty'."

"Oh!" she cried, a little too loudly, and clapped her hands together, "I know exactly what you mean! You've come to the right place!"

Logically, somewhere in her mind there was a voice saying she was being a bit full on. But that voice sounded like her mother, and she dismissed it.

"Well, we have our Amaranthus, which means 'Never-fading feelings'."

She looked up to gauge their expression, and they wrinkled their nose a bit.

"Okay then. There's Baby's Breath, for 'Everlasting love and innocence'."

They shook their head, and uncrossed their arms. They took a step forward, so their stomach was pressed up against their side of the counter, and Pastel could smell shampoo. She dismissed that thought too, to the back of her mind, where she knew she would over-analyse it later tonight. She cleared her throat.

"A Dahlia, 'Proud love without compromise'?"

"I just met them." they told her, their voice sounding quieter now they were closer, "In fact I haven't even met them, I just saw them going into their flat. I want to give it to them when I go and meet them."

Pastel scoffed, her short hair bouncing against her forehead.

"With the way you're explaining it, you might need a Lavender Rose. 'Love at first sight.'"

To her surprise, and relief, they laughed.

"Maybe. But, can you help?"

She sighed, somewhat overdramatically, and leant her head on her hand.

"I supposed a Dark Red Rose means 'unconscious beauty'. A Daffodil means 'new beginnings', if you just met them. Ranunculus means 'Radiant beauty', if you're trying to get your point across. A Lilac just means 'Beauty', but also 'Pride', so be careful with that."

She traced a small crack in the wood of the counter as she spoke, and when she was finished, looked up at them. They were nodding, their expression far away, like they were actually trying to remember what she was saying. She appreciated it.

"I'll take all of those," they told her, and reached into their bag on the floor. "In a bouquet."

"A bouquet?" Pastel repeated in surprise. "Isn't that a bit much?"

"Well if all goes well," they hefted their bag onto the counter, forcing Pastel to take a step back, "it might all end in a date."

As they opened their purse and did the appropriate fiddling with their card and the machine, Pastel thought quietly.

They didn't even know if their neighbour was interested in their gender-or interested in dating at all. What if they said no? What would they do with the bouquet? Wasn't a bouquet a bit much?

"Oh i'm sorry!" Pastel's eyes had trailed down to the message written across their chest-a complete coincidence she swore-and she suddenly realised something.

"What?" They looked back at her in alarm.

"I forgot to ask you about your pronouns," she told them, placing a hand over their mouth, like she had committed a sin. Well she hadn't used any pronouns while talking to them, so it was sort of okay. Sort of.

They chuckled slightly, and put their card back in their bag.

"Ze/Zir."

"Ah." Pastel nodded, placing a hand on the back of her neck. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Oh and one last thing," she put up her hand to stop zir from going.

"You need to tell me your name, and when you can pick the flowers up by."

"Can you do it tonight?"

"I can do it now." Pastel bragged, and puffed out her chest. Yes, she was aware that was a stupid thing to brag about, but it was all she had.

"Thanks." ze said like a huge weight had been lifted. "Oh, and my name's Carmine Xeme."

Pastel paused.

***

By the time Pastel had finished making the bouquet, with very, very shaky hands, and finishing the transaction, her shift was over. Carmine had offered to walk her home-it being nine at night, but Pastel had lied and said she was going in the opposite direction.

So there was a 90% chance that Carmine was her neighbour. Neither the name Carmine, nor zir pronouns were very common, and what were the chances of Pastel just happening to live next to a Carmine who also went by ze/zir?

Very slim.

And Carmine had apparently got the hots for zir new neighbour. The first thought that came to Pastel's mind was 'Lucky Fuchsia'.

Because why would anybody be interested in her?

But logic told her that Fuchsia had been round to that apartment for months, and Carmine probably knew she was in a relationship with Aquamarine.

Unless Carmine was a huge dick who jumped on Fuchsia's grief over being forced into a long-term relationship like a horny jackal. In which case Carmine was a complete douche.

But ze hadn't seemed very douchey.

In fact, ze had seemed quite charming. And pleasant. And was making warm glows appear in the pit of Pastel's stomach the longer she thought about zir.

So maybe (maybe, maybe, maybe), there was a small chance that ze could have been talking about Pastel. Maybe.

In which case, that will be the first time Pastel will ever be asked out. Most people took one look at her clear skin and decided it was too much hassle. Too much drama. It's easier to date someone with lots of marks, who lets anyone touch them, no matter how well they know them.

Pastel shook her head as she walked, clearing her mind. That was wrong. It wasn't right to judge someone on how many marks they have.

But still, being asked out, on a date? Having someone think she's actually attractive? She scratched at a healing scar on her arm. It was a lot to take in.

Her apartment came into view. She fumbled with the keys a bit, and let herself in. Pausing, she looked around; no Carmine in sight.

Rushing up the stairs, she made it to her door and, pushing the keys in. She almost walked in, when she noticed the vase placed on the floor. Mocking her.

It was filled with flowers. From sight, and memory, she could see Dark Red Roses, Daffodils, Lilacs, and Ranunculus's.

There was a note attached.

Sucking in a breath, Pastel leaned down and picked it up. Kicking the door shut behind her, she carried it over to the sofa and, careful not to let the water drip everywhere, placed it down and picked up the note.

'Please be a horny jackal. Please be a horny jackal.' she pleaded with herself.

"Dear Pastel,

I saw you in the hallway

and thought you were cute.

Now i've met you in person,

and you're clever to boot.

Now that I know

what these flowers mean,

Rhymes are hard

Do you want to go out for dinner sometime?"

Pastel snorted through her nose, despite herself, and dropped the note. It fluttered onto the sofa beside her. Damn, that was almost clever.

She had to say no. She had to say no.

The next day she walked into the shop as usual and went on with her day with no sign from Carmine.

She left with a bouquet, and a handwritten card.

Carmine would open zir door, and see a rainbow of withered flowers. Picking up the card, ze would read;

"Blue Rose=Unattainable and impossible,

Carnation, striped=No

Carnation, yellow=rejection

Chrysanthemum, white=truth

Hyacinth, purple=sorry

Hydrangea=Thank you for understanding"


	2. ~Soulmates~or nah?

Pastel began her morning routine;

Scramble through the mountain of unpacked boxes to look for her uniform (why could she never remember which one she put it in?!)

Bug her sister into giving her a ride, even though they both knew she would anyway.

Arrive fifteen minutes early, without having washed, brushed her hair or her teeth, or eaten.

Get a pardon from Mr Xeme to cross the street and buy a pastry with whatever spare change she happened to pick up, and some breath mints.

Go back and start work (eg, hide in the back room doing any job possible to kill the time, so she wouldn't have to deal with customers).

Sneakily use a roll of deodorant she kept in her rucksack whenever Mr Xeme, and the customers weren't looking. And whoever was in the tattoo parlour she was now keeping an eye on.

It was now 7:30, and she was buried under a pile of paperwork, struggling to work through the cramp vexing her hand.

'Has Mr Xeme never heard of computers?!' She wailed in her head, as she gripped her wrist in agony. Logically she knew it wasn't his fault. He was incredibly poor, and a computer would just eat up all of his money. That was also why they would keep all of the lights off at ALL TIMES, even when it was winter, and you couldn't see your nose in front of your face. Pastel learned to carry a flashlight keyring on her rucksack.

"Miss Chaucer?" he called out, and it was only because of the heavy silence of the shop that she could hear his withered voice.

"Yea-" she was about to yell back, before remembering her manners-given in the form of memories of her mother yelling at her-and made her way into the front room.

"Yes?" She asked, stopping at the doorway. Mr Xeme was hunched over the counter, slowly flipping through the shops manual. It was really just 400 pages of all the flowers they had delivered, and the meanings behind them.

"Could you please go out and deliver some new orders? I know it's early but-" he stopped to hack into his gnarled fist, and Pastel stepped forward hurriedly.

"Of course, sir." she nodded with false-eagerness. After making absolutely sure he would be alright of his own, ("I'm far older than any child, Chaucer, you don't have to treat me like one." "I know, sir, but you can be a bit, well... forgetful.") she collected the parcels and addresses, and hopped on her bike.

It wasn't a proper riding bike, like a BMX, or a delivery scooter. It was old and withered, and had probably been around as long as the shop had. That might have been why Mr Xeme insisted on using it.

'I'd rather wear old than rust out,' he always said when she asked about it. She was ninety-nine percent sure that he had stolen that off of Polly Darton, the blues singer, but she didn't say anything.

Pastel kept her eyes narrowed as she cycled as fast as she could down the wide roads. Her legs were beginning to burn, and yet the bike was barely going faster than three miles an hour.

Houses and shops and parks sludged past her, different colours melding together before her eyes. She sucked in a shaky breath that left her chest aching, but pushed the pedals even faster.

Everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt.

Oh god, why wasn't the bike moving faster, she screamed in her head as a fancy sports car zipped past her. There was probably someone behind her, maybe a van of children or a priest of something, who needed to get somewhere, and she was keeping them.

She pushed even harder, the stiff rust of the wheels creaking under her weight. If anything it felt like she was slowing down.

As expected, but no less terrifying, there was a loud blast of sound behind her, and someone yelled something. Their words became lost to the pounding in Pastel's ears.

Three things happened at the exact same time.

One; the bike decided to freeze completely. The pedals stuck, the chains tangled, and somehow the handlebars twisted the wrong way under her grip.

Two; as the bike froze, Pastel's balance decided 'Welp, looks like we're not needed here', and vanished without warning. Her foot missed the pedal, and instead crashed onto the pavement. Through the paralyzed fear clouding her mind, Pastel was vaguely aware of something twisting. Something that felt like it definitely should not twist.

And the third, and thankfully final thing because Pastel wasn't sure what else could possibly happen, the vehicle behind her apparently skidded on something. Because one moment, Pastel was careening towards the ground, with her hand still clutching the handlebars. And the next, something was racing towards her, shadowing all light behind it. Pastel became dimly aware that she was about to be hit by something-or-other, but her mind thankfully switched off right about then.

***

The first thing Pastel recognised when she came to, was beeping. Beeping was never a good sign.

Parting her dry lips, a low moan pushed out from her throat. She flopped her head to one side.

"Miss? Miss, are you alright? Can you speak?" A voice like tires on a icy road appeared next to her, and Pastel buried her head further into the pillow beneath her. At least she assumed it was a pillow; it was rather hard and had lumpy bits sticking into the side of her face.

"Miss?"

"Yesh?" she managed to force out, accompanied by a large wad of drool escaping from the side of her mouth, and sinking into the Maybe-A-Pillow-But-Not-Quite. Her eyes were still shut, she just felt it stick against her face.

"I'm going to call in a doctor to see you. Are you okay with that?"

"Mmmnn." the crushing weight of the world was closing in on her. It was pushing against her exposed, but still gloved, arms and hands, pushing her deeper into the uncomfortable mattress. The urge to fall asleep at the nurses words became more and more tempting.

"Miss?"

"Gggnnnhhh..." somewhere in Pastel's exhausted brain, she was dimly aware that that was not, in fact, a word. But it was quickly dismissed by the fog of darkness sweeping through her body, like a computer slowly being turned off.

"I'll go and get the doctor, then it's visiting hours, okay?"

Something, somewhere between a bolk and a hiccup shuddered through Pastel's body, making something foul smelling and thick spew from her lips again. The nurse sighed.

"And i'll clean you up. Again."

If Pastel had been awake, she would have wondered what the woman meant by 'again'. Fortunately, she wasn't.

***

"Miss?"

Finally, Pastel was awake. Even though her chest was heavy, and her brain felt like it was a bowl of water inside her head, her mind found the simple act of falling asleep uncomfortable and unnecessary.

She was sitting up in her hospital bed, not really sure how she had gotten there, just staring at the curtain. Counting the number of creases in the fabric. Then the nurse came in, and ruined all of her progress.

"Mmm?" she grunted, frowning at the curtain. She had gotten to 37, and it looked like there were only six left.

"Your doctors here. We would only examine you while you're awake, because it didn't look like you had any serious injuries."

Or had it been seven left? Maybe nine? No, no, it was definitely six.

The curtain was pulled back again-much to Pastel's chagrin-and a man in a fancy coat stepped beside the nurse.

"Good evening Teal. This is the broken leg, correct?"

Pastel's gaze snapped from vaguely watching the curtain, to staring, horrified, at the two adults in front of her.

"Broken leg?" she spluttered, the now-familiar sense of saliva filling up in her mouth, and spraying onto the blanket. The doctor didn't pay her any mind.

"We have the operation room ready, can we bring in the stretcher?"

"Of course, doctor."

Pastel watched in unease, as the curtains were pulled back, again, and a large, sheet-covered stretcher was pushed into the room.

"Excuse me," the doctor said, and moved past the group of people pushing it, and left the room. Pastel started to watch him go, before being interrupted by two of the nurses hooking their arms under hers and lifting her off of the bed.

"Hey! Put me down!" Pastel struggled, elbows colliding with bony chests and cold hands. The nurses didn't give up, and just moved faster as they carried her onto the stretcher.

"What do you think you're-"

Her complains were cut off by a large oxygen mask placed over her mouth, and something metallic-tasting being breathed in.

Her eyes fluttered shut, again.

***

'"No Daddy, I love him!" Celestiabelle wailed in anguish, her delicate blonde hair falling perfectly over her lithe shoulders. Her father just glared at her, obviously ignoring every word that left her cupid-bow lips.

"Bellie," he sighed, with fatherly dignity, "you must stay from that boy, he is dangerous!"

"He's no boy!" Celestiabelle yelled in defiance," he's a man!"

"He's a vampire!" he roared back, his face turning an unattractive shade of red. Much unlike the feminine pink dusting Celestiabelle's own fair features.'

Pastel absentmindedly nibbled on her thumb mail as she turned the page. Why couldn't Celestiabelle's father just see Chadthaniel for the hunky dreamboat that he is? Or was it Bradthaniel? Pastel was pretty sure the author had changed it thirty pages ago, without realising.

Just because Brad/Chad was manic and destructive, and led Celestiabelle to jumping off of a cliff in a bid for his attention, doesn't give her father the right to stop them from marrying.

There was a sudden knock at the door, and Pastel hurriedly shoved the book under her pillow. She cleared her throat, awkwardly.

"Er, yes?" she called out, and watched as the door opened. Someone timidly stepped in. Someone Pastel recognised immediately.

"Hello, Carmine." she said, almost robotically.

Carmine shifted in the doorway, zir hands twisting together uncomfortably.

"Hey, Pastel." ze muttered to the ground, zir long pink hair falling over zir face. Pastel was too tired to really feel anything towards zir right now. Maybe later that night, when she was wide awake and would grossly over-analyse every mistake she had made that day, this would come up.

"Hey."

Silence.

Carmine shifted from foot to foot. Ze were wearing uggs, Pastel hadn't noticed that before. Ze had the same black, denim dungarees, with the same silver calligraphy, and bedazzled jewels. Except now the words were fuzzy and smudged. Pastel wasn't sure if she should consider glasses, or if it was the medication.

"What?" That was rude, Pastel told herself. Then her mind randomly thought up a picture of a puppy, and the criticism disappeared.

"I just wanted to say..." Carmine bit zir lip, "I know we might be in a weird place since the whole... flower debacle. But... just ask, and i'll come over. If you need help with anything, call me. I can help you and... since we're neighbours, i'm just a door knock away."

Ze made uncomfortable finger guns. Pastel felt too tired to return the gesture. Her arms felt like lead.

"Uh huh."

"I heard you're getting out tomorrow. Well, not 'out', this isn't a prison, but you're going home." Carmine babbled, shoving their hands in the small pocket over their stomach.

"It's like a prison."

"Oh."

Pastel hadn't answered the question. Which wasn't really a question. More of a statement. What was ze saying?

"Bye."

Carmine blinked at the rude dismissal, but bowed zir head in understanding, and left the room, shutting the door behind zir.

Pastel tipped her head back onto the pillow.

***

The next four days were a mesh of passing out before and after surgeries, and vomiting up any hospital food. Pastel wasn't sure how much more she could take of this. She was still in her bed, having been in it so long she could name all the different lumps prodding underneath her. She shifted, and Gary (Lump #24) stuck into her back. She groaned. The only time she was ever allowed to leave the bed was when the stretcher came (twice a day) and took her away for surgeries. And even then she'd be knocked out with some sort of mystery gas.

"Hey Pastie,"

Pastel craned her neck to look down the bed. No one at the door.

"I'm over here,"

She turned to follow the voice, and saw Fuchsia sitting next to her in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. Her normally straightened silky black hair was a mess with splits ends and damp curls. Pastel grunted at her.

"Mmm."

Fuchsia didn't say anything, just leaned forward, and placed her hand on Pastel's forehead. She felt cold, and it was a nice relief against the hospital's stodgy air conditioning.

"God, you're boiling." Fuchsia gasped, and gently began stroking her sisters hair. Pastel became horribly aware of how greasy her head suddenly felt.

"Sorry." she mumbled, and leant into the touch. She closed her eyes, tiredly.

Carmine had black eyes.

Pastel frowned behind closed eyelids. Where had that come from?

But it was true, she supposed, in a way. Black eyes. With white reflections against the fluorescent lights, when ze had come to visit. Pastel had caught a glimpse before she fell asleep.

And she had seen them when ze visited the flower shop. She had stared into Carmine's eyes a lot that day. Not in a weird way, or anything. They were just nice eyes.

And they were nice. Black. Black as shadows. Black as tar. Black as liquorice, if liquorice was actually something worth being compared to. It isn't.

But with white bits. Half white reflections, half black pools. Pools so deep you could drown in them. Like someone had been colouring them in with the darkest shade of ink, but stopped halfway. Or like a moon in the middle of its cycle.

So yeah, Carmine had nice eyes. Nice makeup too. Orange, and red eyeshadow. And sharp eyeliner. And pink lipstick. Summer colours. Burning colours. Hot colours.

Had ze been wearing makeup when ze came to visit? Would ze try to look nice for Pastel, when she was at her weakest? Or would ze be too distraught to properly apply it?

God, how many drugs had Pastel been given this morning?

"Ew, Pastel you're drooling!" The hand that was stroking her hair quickly vanished. So that explained that.

"Sorry." Pastel moaned through a heavy tongue, and turned her head into the pillow.

"Before you go to sleep, I need to tell you-"

"I'm not asleep." her voice came out thick with drool. She spat it out onto the pillow.

"Right, well-"

"What time is it?"

She heard Fuchsia groan beside her, and felt something sink in her stomach. She was being a brat, asking all these questions. Wasn't she? It was her right to ask questions. Yes but she doesn't have to do it while Fuchsia's talking.

"It's 10 in the morning."

"God."

"I know."

Fuchsia sighed, and Pastel saw her shift in her seat, from the corner of her eye.

 _"Anyway,"_ she began again, "I came to tell you that Ma's coming to pick you up in an hour. She'll be round with the car, and we can take you home."

"Yaay." Pastel didn't sound as enthusiastic as she could. She didn't feel as enthusiastic as she could. She was tired.

She closed her eyes, ever so g e n t l y.

XXX

Pastel was going insane. She glared at her leg, propped up on a footstool that had been borrowed from Fuchsia's school, from her place on the sofa. A sofa which was now starting to smell a little unfamiliar, and sink around her.

This was ridiculous. She shouldn't be here. She should be outside, collecting the mail that Fuchsia always forgot about, or bringing in the milk that went off in the summer heat. Fuchsia couldn't be here for that. She had to work.

And what about Mr Xeme and the flower shop? Hd he found a replacement for her? What if the replacement was even better than Pastel and he fired her. No, Mr Xeme wouldn't do that. But what if he did?

Pastel had only been stuck on the sofa for a to and a half days. She had been brought back from the hospital and placed on the sofa at half past three on a Monday morning. It was now lunchtime on Wednesday. She hadn't moved.

Oh she probably could move. Her crutches were right there next to her on the floor. But that meant having to get up. And putting pressure on her foot, which the doctors told her specifically not to do.

Although... Pastel stared at the crutch closest to her. Her Ma hadn't listened to the doctors when they said to 'get to the hospital as fast as you can', and instead given birth in the sitting room carpet. Three times, with all three sisters, and they'd all turned out fine. Except for Plum's weird birthmark, which may or may not be rug burn.

Pastel huffed, and bent forward, her now rather pudgy stomach twisting under her tight jeans. The medication had made her puff up a bit... mixed with not being able to move for a couple of days, Pastel's clothes were beginning to feel a little tight.

Snatching at the air in front of her for a bit, she finally grabbed hold of one of the crutches, and leant back, sighing in relief. Her body was not made to bend that way.

She pushed the crutch onto the ground, and heaved herself up, quickly grabbing onto the side of the sofa with her fist to steady herself. After a moment of terrifying silence, where she frozen halfway between the sofa and the floor, she finally pushed herself completely up, and steadied her good foot on the ground. Moving the crutch to her other hand, she s l o w l y placed her Bad Foot on the floor.

Oh god it hurt. Pastel swore she could actually feel the bones move around inside of her. Oh god oh god oh god. Sucking in a breath, and swallowing the bile rising in her mouth, she moved the crutch, and took a step.

And then another.

And another.

And finally she was actually moving around the room, hopping like a frog around the small furry rug and behind the telly, and twice around the small coffee table they were using as a dining table.

Pastel became grossly aware of the cold sweat plastering her shirt and jeans to the back of her from sitting around, and the unfamiliar smell that she thought was from sitting on the sofa for too long, now following her.

Ugh. She really should take a shower. She looked down at the great, big, black cast encasing her foot. Ah. Right.

Pastel sighed, and looked around the room for a bit, as if the answer would come to her. She tapped her fingers on the crutch impatiently, and chewed on her lip.

She was stuck.

There was the bath even go about it? Prop her cast out the side? And how would she even get out? Pastel groaned to herself, feeling a lukewarm wash of blood pour into her mouth as she bit her lip too hard.

She would need help.

But Fuchsia wouldn't be back until five in the afternoon. That was far and a half hours away.

'I suppose,' Pastel wondered to herself, 'I could just wait until then.' but then she raised her arm to move the crutch, and felt the crutch, and felt the sweat stick underneath her. Se couldn't go the rest of the day like this.

It was an hour's drives to get to her old house to ask Ma; and she'd probably be at a meeting now anyway. Dad was on set making his film for the day, so she couldn't ask him. Plum will be in school.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.

Pastel was starting to get nervous. She couldn't go the rest of the day like this, all sweaty and sticky. She had to ask someone for help.

A memory appeared in her mind;

'Just ask, and i'll come over. If you need help with anything, call me.'

She paused. Just, standing there, in the middle of the room on one foot, gripping a pair of crutches like a vise.

"What the fuck? No." she finally laughed. It sounded forced. It felt forced. As if her lungs were a bicycle pump some three year old gave up on, and left to slowly let out all of its air.

She couldn't ask Carmine. She didn't even know Carmine. They lived next door to each other, and ze came to visit her at the hospital. And massively hit on her, and had to be denied in what may be the saltiest flower exchange Pastel had ever been a part of.

She could just wait it out. Wait for Fuchsia to get home. Do it herself. Go and visit Ma, and see if she'll help. There were plenty of options that didn't involve her neighbour helping her undress.

But somehow Pastel swayed where she stood, and accidently knocked her cast further into the ground. She hissed through her teeth, as tears stung behind her eyes. She couldn't do it. She had to get help, she couldn't just stand here all day, wasting away in her own filth.

Sucking in a breath, Pastel moved towards the door, and with some awkward fumbling, pushed it open.

Carmine's door was right next to hers. It took Pastel about five minutes to hop from one side of the hallway to the other, until she was finally in front of zir door.

The door was the standard red, like all the other doors, with a small window. Except for more scratches around the bottom, and for some reason, stickers plastered over it. Cartoon characters and random logos stared back at Pastel as she watched the door.

Oh god. Oh boy. Oh no. She was doing this.

Holding her breath to not let any noises escape, she moved the crutch so she was holding both with one hand, and with the other, shakily knocked on the door.

One knock.

Nobody answered.

Two knocks. A little louder.

Nobody answered.

Her arms became heavy as the crutches weighed her down, and her body began to sting from standing on one leg.

Three knocks. Actually thumping on the door, desperately waiting for someone, anyone, to answer.

There was the sound of rapid footsteps, and the door unlocked.

Carmine was on the other side. Ze gave Pastel a surprised blink.

"Pastel." was all ze said, zir black eyes smudged with overnight makeup and tiredness. Pastel tried not to notice it too much.

"Carmine." she nodded, and then remembered why she was here, and that there was no point playing the upperhand. She bit the inside of her mouth.

"I need... your help with something," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the ground. Carmine's welcome mat read, 'Oh, It's You Again'. Pastel tried not to see it as a sign.

"Of course, what is it?" Carmine asked, zir voice was dripping with concern. Pastel coughed awkwardly.

"I need help... i'm going..." for some reason the words wouldn't come out. Her chest felt tight.

"I need to take a bath." the words came out slow and stodgy, like they were caught in her throat and she had to force them up.

"Okay." Ze said simply. Pastel couldn't tell if ze knew what she was referring to.

"And I need... I need help." Pastel repeated. She didn't know what else to say. Carmine just stared at her, eyes crusting over with mascara and dark blue eyeshadow. Finally ze blinked, and stepped forward. Pastel stepped back.

"I'll be happy to help, but if you're not comfortable with anything, just say, okay?" Ze said simply, stepping back a little bit to give Pastel some space.

"Really? I didn't know if you'd be comfortable since we don't really know each other, and... the whole flower incident." Shit fuck shit. Why'd she bring it up?

Carmine didn't say anything. Just kept a content and comfortable gaze with Pastel, which she appreciated.

"So what do you need help with?" Ze asked, zir voice sounding far too casual for the current situation. Pastel wanted to die on the spot.

"I just... need to get in and out again. And to prop my foot up. And to reach some things." she explained, her face heating up in humiliation. She put her crutches back in both hands, and placed her foot on the floor. And immediately winced. Carmine face twisted into alarm.

Oh no why had she winced, now Carmine is going to take pity on her, and help her, and Pastel doesn't NEED help, she just winced for no reason, she is just manipulating Carmine, but she didn't MEAN to, that was an accident, she needed to man up, and remedy the situation.

"I'm fine." she mumbled to the floor, and lifted her foot again. Then placed it back on the floor. Oh god it hurt. She lifted it again.

"I can carry you." Carmine told her, and took a small step closer. Pastel looked up.

Carmine was staring at her cast, with a horrified expression. Her hands were outstretched, like she was waiting to catch Pastel if she fell. Her uncurled, unbrushed hair was falling over her face, into her eyes. Pastel scoffed in laughter. Then turned it into a cough, because that was rude.

"You can't carry me," she laughed, placing her foot down, and lifting it up again. It felt like she was dancing on coals. Carmine didn't laugh back. Ze looked distressed.

"You can say if you don't want me to carry you-I get that, that would be a huge invasion of space, I know. You can say that. But, if you can't walk-and I don't think you can-then I can carry you, if you're okay with that."

Ze looked up from Pastel's cast, and held her gaze. Zir black eyes were missing the white reflection that Pastel saw in the hospital. Ze still looked gorgeous. 


End file.
